a twisted grin.
“Oh, ho, Bernstein! And what’s your great story today, eh? Another lost dog tale, is it not? Call the Canadian Association of Journalists! We have a finalist!”
Sanderson’s fair, freckled face flushed red again. He resented it when Jinnah tormented him because he was bored.
“I should win an award for the dumpster dog,” countered Sanderson firmly. “It’s an uplifting story of human compassion.”
“Throwing a Scottie dog into a dumpster to die is hardly heroism,” observed Jinnah.
“Rescuing him is,” retorted Sanderson. “Really, Hakeem! You’re so judgmental!”
“All shall be judged, Ronald! Remember: there is trial by judge, trial by jury and trial by Jinnah!”
“In any event, I’d much rather read about an act of kindness towards an animal over my morning corn flakes than the gruesome details of your latest case.”
“Now, Ronald —”
Jinnah got no further. A shadow came between himself and Sanderson and as it was cast by Gerald Dixon Grant, it was both a physical and emotional pall. Both Sanderson and Jinnah immediately stiffened. Grant was a business reporter and, as he liked to remind Jinnah, an award-winning journalist. As such, he dressed in power suits and conservative ties and regarded Jinnah’s fashion sense as “post-modern juvenile.” Grant towered over the seated Jinnah, his tall, heavy frame crowned by thinning blond hair and designer glasses. Like his opinion of himself, everything about Grant was over-stated: his face was too large for his head, his lips too thick for his mouth, his bulging eyes ready to pop out of sockets too small to contain them. His smile was a bearing of fangs about to be sunk into the delicate portions of Jinnah’s large, exposed ego.
“Morning, Jinnah,” Grant said curtly. “Hard at it, I see.”
Jinnah remained sprawled in his chair, feet on his desk. His coffee was nearly empty but he affected a look of disinterest by sipping at its dregs and playing with his computer terminal.
“Crime reporting requires thinking, Mister Grant, not just rewriting some corporate press release. I am thinking,” he said, staring at his screen.
Grant leaned down and looked at the curved glass surface. A story template was on display there with Jinnah’s name atop it, but otherwise, the screen was blank.
“I see you have the most important portion of your day’s labour completed,” said Grant. “All you have to do now is hit a user key and fill in the blanks, right?”
Sanderson managed to stifle a chuckle. Jinnah only wrote four kinds of tales and did them in such a repetitive style that his colleagues had coined the phrase “user key stories” to describe them. User key one, when dealing with murder or accidental death, was “Why did he/she have to die?” If somehow the victim had failed to die (a serious fault that almost always moved a story off page one and back inside the paper), Jinnah fell back on user key two: “So-and-so is Lucky to Be Alive.” There was also user key three (The little guy/gal fighting the government body oppressing him/her and “she/he is furious!”) and user key four (“All I saw was a blinding flash,” for explosions and other catastrophes). Jinnah, however, was not amused.
“What do you want, Grant? We’re all rather busy here on city side.”
Grant leaned even closer to Jinnah, putting an unfriendly arm around his co-worker’s shoulders. His tone was as collegial as a drill sergeant explaining something to a particularly thick recruit.
“This little car fire story I see your name attached to on the list? Drop it, okay?”
Jinnah sat bolt upright, rigid.
“What are you talking about?” he snapped.
“I’m doing it, that’s why.”
“Like hell you are! And take your hands off me or I’ll slap a sexual harassment suit on you so fast —”
“That it’ll make all those times you unbuttoned your shirt and showed Crystal the receptionist your ‘African Rug’ pale by comparison?”
Grant’s tone was still warm and friendly. It always was when he was skewering someone. Sanderson toyed with the idea of going to Jinnah’s aid, then rejected it. The audience watching this set-to was too large. If anything beat a Sanderson-Jinnah bout it was a grudge-match between the two biggest egos at the paper.
“There’s nothing pale about my African Rug, buddy,” said Jinnah, unfastening another button on his already amply opened shirt. “Would you like to see more of it?”
Grant straightened up and took a step back.
“I pride myself on being in touch with my feminine side, Jinnah. That doesn’t mean I want to be in touch with your hairy chest.”
“Then what’s this bullshit about you stealing my Cadillac crispy critter?”
“Because the crispy critter in question has just been identified as Sam Schuster and Sam Schuster belongs to me. Period.”
Jinnah was momentarily silenced. Sanderson was surprised enough to let his newspaper shield drop.
“You mean Sam the Sham? Shyster Schuster?” Sanderson asked.
Grant nodded gravely.
“Well,” said Jinnah standing up. “All the more reason for me to cover it, I think.”
For all his sang-froid, Grant bristled slightly.
“Indian speak with fork in his tongue,” said Grant. “Make no sense.”
“Then I’ll use the tiny, small words you business guys are limited to in your vocabulary,” Jinnah replied, taking a step towards Grant. “I have a 100 percent controlling interest in murders at this newspaper. Your presence on this story would be a considerable liability. And since, as my inherent instincts tell me, this is likely to be the line story today —”
“It should be done properly,” said Grant coldly. “By me.”
“Oh?” said Jinnah. “And where are you going to get your facts? The same place you got your name?”
Grant’s face hardened into taut, tense lines.
“What are you insinuating?”
“Listen, smartass! I remember when you were just plain Gerry Grant working in the suburbs writing sports! Suddenly, you make up a middle name —”
“I’ve had quite enough of this conversation.”
Grant, his face a mask of icy contempt, turned and stalked away.
“Go on, run!” Jinnah shouted after him. “We’ll see who ends up on page one!”
Grant turned abruptly.
“Why don’t we leave it to Blacklock to decide then, Jinnah? He usually gives you preferred treatment, doesn’t he?”
There
